


Like An Old Friend

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 17:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don didn’t mind you being away that long?”</p>
<p>Megan stared at him, openly. He stared back, blankly.</p>
<p>“Michael,” she said slowly, “Don and I are divorced. We got divorced before I left New York.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like An Old Friend

**Author's Note:**

> There is only one explanation for this: because I could.

Megan’s return to New York was not as triumphant as she would have liked; there were no red carpets in her immediate future, no star-studded parties at the producer’s house. Six months in L.A. had yielded nothing better than a handful of failed auditions, mostly for local commercials. Still, she was glad to be back. December without snow would never feel right to her. New York was beautifully white and bitingly cold. She hadn’t adjusted to the temperature change yet and shivered everywhere she went. She had to buy gloves and a scarf after the plane landed - she had given away most of her winter things when she moved.

The scarf served a dual purpose. Bundle up enough and it was almost a disguise, and if she happened to turn a corner and see Don she could just glide on past, anonymous.

That was what she told herself. She still wished that she had an excuse to wear sunglasses.

She stayed in a hotel room the week of her first audition. It was a good opportunity - there was a lot of buzz happening around the script. And she knew people in New York. Or she used to. She got a callback, and then a confirmation from her agent that she got the part.

“Oh, my god,” she said, knees weak with relief. She sat down on the unmade bed. “I’m so glad to hear that.”

“Stick around, kid,” Georgie said. “I’m hearing some nice things about you.”

That was a change from L.A.

“Georgie, I can’t thank you enough. You’re too good to me.”

“Pffft. I wish all my clients were as complimentary as you.”

After hanging up Megan pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to ward off tears. She lay back and practiced the meditation techniques she had picked up in acting class to calm her breathing.

She wasn’t a failure. Not yet.

 

Megan established a routine. She contacted old friends. Julia tipped her off to an available apartment not far from the rehearsal space. The owner was subletting it and let Megan have it for cheap - he was clearly a bit in love with Julia and was eager to help her friend out. The apartment was a bachelor’s suite that frequently smelled of pub food from the bar below, but it was clean and it gave her space of her own.

She got a job in a diner. Waitressing was okay - she had done it before. She didn’t make much, but with wage and tips she could cover her own expenses. Megan always got good tips.

Every morning, shift and weather permitting, she went for a walk. She brought a thermos of coffee with her and browsed the magazine stand at the corner. On the days she bought something she gave away her change to the homeless man who hung around the stand, debating politics with the owner. Then she would go to work, if she was scheduled, or to a class. Evenings were for rehearsal.

On the weekends she scoured thrift shops for furniture. She covered her walls with worn Mucha prints, draped ugly lamps with fabric to hide the discoloured shades. Her decorating was a little haphazard, but she had a good eye for colour and shape. It wasn’t elegant, but she thought it was cozy.

Finally, when she felt strong enough, she called her mother.

Marie was not happy.

“Three months, three _months_ without a word from you,” Marie said, in furious, rapid French. “Your father wanted to call the police in Los Angeles. I stopped him. I knew this was just you having a tantrum to punish me.”

“It wasn’t a tantrum, Mother, because I am not a child. You -”

“Then why do you act like one? Like a little girl, stomping her foot because she is denied a treat she wants -”

“You took my ex-husband’s side in our divorce! Did you think that wouldn’t make me angry?”

“Marriage is work, Megan. This silly acting business has distracted you from that. You don’t run away to another city because your husband isn’t giving you enough attention.”

“No, you just sleep with his friends while he’s ‘tutoring graduate students’.” Megan said, as snidely as possible.

Marie hung up without another word. Megan stood there, trembling with guilt and anger, clutching the receiver so hard her knuckles turned white. She made herself set it down gently.

They had been having this argument since Megan told Marie that it was over between her and Don, that the trial separation would become a permanent one. Moving to L.A., in her mother’s eyes, was an admission of failure. Marie thought she was crazy to leave her marriage in the first place, and crazier still to not take any of Don’s money while she did it.

It wasn’t failure. It was freedom. Megan didn’t want to be divorced before she was thirty, to be alone in a crappy, cramped apartment, fighting with her mother like a teenager. Yet what was the alternative? To return to a marriage where the distance could never be breached, where she never knew what he needed, what he wanted from her? To become more sour and brittle with each passing anniversary?

Any struggle was a small price to pay for avoiding that future. And it would get better. Megan was determined to believe that. She had to.

 

The diner always had a rush during the noon hour, which kept Megan busy enough that she didn’t notice him come in. The ugly plaid jacket caught her eye as she walked past, ferrying dirty dishes to the kitchen. It was Michael Ginsberg, sitting at the lunch counter, absorbed in a crossword. He was wearing that absurd green hat.

She fought the urge to hide. This was bound to happen sooner or later, and better it be him than someone more likely to deliver news of her back to Don. Instead, she deposited her dishes in the sink and headed straight for him.

“Have you been helped, sir?” she asked, leaning over his shoulder.

“Just coffee, thanks,” he said, eyes fixed on his crossword.

Oh, for -

“Michael, it’s me. Megan.”

“Hi,” she said, sheepishly, when he looked up.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in L.A.? Or do I have that wrong?”

“No, I was - did Peggy say something?” Megan asked. She didn’t know if Don would have told Peggy. They weren’t as close as they had once been.

“No, Harry Crane did. Don told him you were there for some movie thing, maybe? Honestly, I don’t listen real close to what Harry says.”

Typical Harry. He had such a big mouth. “I’d moved there. I was there for half of this year. It wasn’t supposed to be temporary, but - things change.”

“Don didn’t mind you being away that long?”

Megan stared at him, openly. He stared back, blankly.

“Michael,” she said slowly, “Don and I are divorced. We got divorced before I left New York.”

“No kidding,” Michael said. “Nobody told me anything like that. You know what,” he slapped the counter emphatically and pointed a finger at her, “good for you. Don is an asshole. I would _never_ want to be married to that guy.” With a wide and completely genuine grin, he held out his hand for a congratulatory handshake.

Megan lost it. Just lost it. She laughed long and helpless, slumping down onto the stool next to him. She looked deranged, wiping giddy tears off her face in the middle of the diner. But lord, it felt so good.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely, after she managed to pull herself together. He had watched the entire display silently, gently baffled.

“I dunno for what, but you’re welcome. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I am,” Megan said, and for the first time in months - no, for the first time in years - she really was.

 

He was a regular at the diner. “I live not too far from here,” he told her after their paths had crossed a few times, “is it okay if I come in sometimes?”

“You don’t need my permission. And why would I say no?”

He shrugged. “Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t bugging you.”

“I like it when you come in,” Megan told him, and it was true. She started taking her breaks with him when he was there. She would drink a pot of tea and tell him which words he had wrong in the crossword.

“Don’t you eat?” he asked her one day, half finished with his own meal. “All you ever have is that tea.”

“I guess I’m still under Hollywood’s influence,” she said. “Coffee and a cigarette is a meal there. Everyone is always reducing.”

“Reducing to what? You’d disappear!”

“Are you telling me I’m too skinny?” she asked, amused, and then shook her head. “It’s so strange out there. Like another planet. They even have their own language - I kept getting told I was too “ethnic” or too “athletic”. What does that mean? Too dark haired? Too tall? It made me insane, trying to figure it out.” She sipped her tea. “Unless it was my teeth holding me back again. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Megan, that’s stupid. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever met,” he said, and became immediately and visibly concerned. “I wasn’t making a pass just then, I swear. It’s the truth, you being a knockout.”

“Thank you. That’s very sweet.” And it was. She never had to worry that he was lying or trying to flatter her. He was too straightforward for that.

“Besides,” he added, “Gene Tierney had an overbite like a stapler, and look how beautiful she was.”

Megan bit her tongue to keep from laughing. “There is that,” she said, and stole a french fry from his plate.

There were times they were both there late - Megan because she was working an evening shift, and Michael because he was coming off some frantic campaign that kept him at work until well past dusk - and on those nights he always insisted on walking her home. It wasn’t safe for her to wander around by herself after dark, he said. Megan wasn’t sure what he planned to do if something _did_ happen. Still, it was pleasant to have company, and during one frostbitten goodbye on her stoop she invited him up for the first time.

“At least come have something hot to drink,” she said. “I make a good Irish coffee.”

He looked around the apartment curiously while she put the pot on. He didn’t touch anything, or even take off his coat, just drifted around with his hands in his pockets.

“There’s not much to it, I know,” she said, stirring in whisky and sugar. “At least I made my bed this morning.” Megan didn’t have room for a couch - her T.V. was at the foot of the bed - but she had a small table and two chairs. She put both mugs on the table, using napkins for coasters, and beckoned him over.

“I like it,” Michael said. “I like your pictures there. Who did them?”

“Alphonse Mucha. He was involved in advertising, actually, and did posters, magazine illustrations. Very much a working artist.”

“Like Stan, kinda. But fancier.”

“He had a contract with Sarah Bernhardt - she was his first patron. That was how I learned about him, from reading about her.”

“Sarah Bernhardt?” He asked, mug halfway to his lips.

“This really famous stage actress at the turn of the century. She was English. They called her The Divine Sarah, and she had all these amazing roles. She played Hamlet, for example.”

“Sounds like an interesting lady. You sure know a lot about this.”

“Sorry,” Megan apologized. “History of the theatre is a hobby of mine.”

“What’re you saying sorry for? For knowing things?”

“I…” Megan blinked. “I don’t know.” She had gotten accustomed to having to hide her passions and ambitions, to having to present them in just the right way in order to make them palatable. It had become a habit. “I thought I might be boring you.”

“I’m almost never bored. Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Go for it,” Megan said, more out of curiosity to see what he would come up with than anything else.

“How come you came back from L.A.? I’d think that would be a better place for an actress, what with the movie studios and all. And you wouldn’t have to worry about freezing your nut - uh - freezing your bits off in the winter.”

Megan looked away from him, out the window. It wasn’t snowing, but she could hear the wind whistling a bitter song. “It - you’ve heard the term ‘casting couch’, right?” She continued on once he nodded, “it’s a real thing, and a big problem. I turned this guy down. He wasn’t even important, just a minor casting director. He spread rumours about me, and they got everywhere. Even my roommates heard them. I couldn’t go to an audition without someone assuming I would start taking off my clothes the minute they gave me the slightest bit of attention. It got to be too much.” She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I’m just not tough enough for that world.”

“That’s not true at all - you were on that soap. I never saw it, but my Pop used to watch it now and then. And you’ve been back in the city five minutes and already you’re in a play.”

“I can thank my agent for that,” Megan sniffed. “She really stood by me.”

“Aw, Megan, don’t cry. I’d never have asked if I knew it was gonna upset you. Don’t start or you’re gonna get me going.”

Megan laughed, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. “Okay, I’ll stop.” He did look distressed, eyes big and wet. “How’s the coffee?”

“It’s good. Thanks for having me over. I don’t get a chance to be social much.”

She hugged him impulsively while he was putting on his shoes, getting ready to go. He made a startled noise and teetered backwards.

“What are you doing on Christmas?” she asked.

“You do know that I’m Jewish.”

“Yes, Michael. I know that you’re Jewish. Do you want to go to a movie?” Megan had no desire to spend Christmas alone, and she wasn’t about to head back to Montreal. She already missed the kids so bad it ached, and it was only going to get worse the closer they got to the holidays. It hurt every time she passed a display window and saw something she could buy for Sally. A movie could be just the thing to chase the blues away.

He looked as if he didn’t know what to say. “I - yeah, if - I could go for a movie. I don’t have plans.”

“You can pick. I’ll watch anything.”

In the end they chose together, reading through the movie listings in the back of the Times. They went to see _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_ . It was the least traditional Christmas Megan had ever experienced, and one of the nicest. Midway through the film Michael leaned over and whispered, “One day it’ll be you up there, and I’ll be able to brag that I knew you way back when.” Megan thought of that often, later on, during rehearsals or before an audition. She kept it close, like her own personal good luck charm.

 

Michael was working on opening night and couldn’t make it, but he saved all the notices he could find and brought them to her. Most of them didn’t even mention her - Megan’s part was not very big - but she appreciated the gesture. He did eventually make it down, and she convinced him to stick around after and meet the cast.

“Actors are nice people,” he said, surprised, as they walked home.

“I should hope so, since I’m one of them.”

“Nah, I just meant - I expected them to be snobs. I work in advertising, it’s not filled with what you’d call artistic integrity. I thought they’d judge that.”

“Some actors would,” Megan admitted. “But sensible people don’t. Only the very lucky get to skip having a day job. And even Shakespeare wrote for a patron.”

He started coming over more often. Megan had never seen the inside of his apartment - she was curious as hell - but they spent a great deal of time in hers, sitting on Megan’s bed and watching T.V., chatting about their day, just hanging out. Sometimes he arrived with food; other times she would cook or they would go to the diner. Megan got an employee discount. They went to the movies regularly, and Megan dragged him to a classics revue when she found out he had never seen Bette Davis in anything. That was just unacceptable.

One night he came in while Megan was on the phone with her father. “That language is so pretty,” he said after she had hung up.

“We were fighting,” Megan told him.

“Oh. It sounds better in French. What were you fighting about?”

Megan sighed, frustrated. “The usual. He wants me to come home and thinks I’m wasting my time here. He offers to send me money, but there are always strings attached. I don’t want to be dependent on anyone.”

“I’m not one to talk. I still live at home.” Michael said, putting his billfold and a stack of folders on Megan’s table. He had come from the office.

“Why haven’t you moved out? You must be making decent money by now.”

“It’s not money, it’s -” he sat down, at a loss. “It’s hard to explain. There was only ever the two of us. What’s he gonna with himself once I’m gone? And what if he gets sick - what if he has a heart attack, and I’m not around?”

“Does your Dad have a heart condition?” Megan asked, alarmed.

“No.”

“They why are you planning for one?” Megan sat down across from him and looked at him intently. “Give the man some credit. He managed to get through life before you came along.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right.”

“I know I’m right.” Megan looked through the folders. “Why are you writing copy for Tampax?”

“Because certain people at work think it’s hilarious. I’m blocked on it. I haven’t got a clue what to say.”

“Ever try meditating?” Megan asked. “It helps me loosen up when I’m having a hard time getting into a character’s mindset.”

“Meditating?” Michael looked dubious. “You mean where people sit with their legs crossed and hum?”

“It’s really just a way of centering yourself. Of making your mind blank, and relaxing.”

“I can’t ever recall my mind being blank. I doubt the possibility.”

“Look, I’ll show you.” Megan pulled two pillows off her bed and put them on the floor. “Follow my lead.”

They sat facing each other, legs crossed, hands resting on their knees. Michael tried to imitate Megan’s posture, but first he kept slouching, and then he shifted anxiously on the pillow; finally he compulsively tapped his fingers his fingers on his legs.

She reached out and stopped his hands from moving. “Do I have to sit on you?”

“Okay, okay. I’ll behave.”

“Close your eyes and breath from your trunk - “

“From my _what_?”

“It means your torso.” Megan demonstrated, concentrating on her the sensation of her lungs expanding, but when she opened her eyes he was watching her, not following directions at all.

“Michael!”

“Fine, I’ll do it. See?” He shut his eyes, but the corners of his mouth started to twitch and it was too late; he broke up completely, falling backwards with an enormous whoop of laughter.

Megan left him to it. She got up and went to put the kettle on. “You are the worst student I’ve ever had. Deal with your tampons yourself.”

 

Megan was already late; she was supposed to leave for drinks with her agent fifteen minutes ago. Trying to do her hair one handed wasn’t helping her go any faster, but it had been too long since she had talked to Julia. She didn’t want to hang up yet.

“So who is he?” Julia asked, in high gossip mode.

“Who’s who?” Megan said, fussing with her lipstick.

“You know who.”

“Did we just become an Abbott and Costello routine? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Your mystery man! You dropped off the map, you don’t even call your best friend. It can only mean one thing. I want to know _everything_.”

“You have it all wrong. I’ve been spending time with a friend - someone I knew in advertising.”

“A gentleman friend?”

“Not the way you mean, but yes. To tell the truth, it’s been so long since I got laid that I’ve forgotten what it feels like.”

“Does that mean I can set you up with someone? Oh, I know the perfect guy!”

Megan wasn’t convinced of that. Julia had interesting taste in men, to put it kindly. “I don’t know how ready I am for a relationship.”

“I’m not asking you to propose to him. Wait, I have a great idea! We’ll go on a double date. That will take the pressure off.”

“Me and my blind date, you and … who?”

“How about your advertising friend? If you’re really not interested.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Is he ugly?”

“No!”

“Then I don’t see a problem.”

“We could try it.” Megan didn’t know why she felt so flatly unenthusiastic about the idea. She liked Julia and she liked Michael. They could get along - stranger things had happened. Yet it was about as appealing as cold oatmeal for breakfast. “I’ll see what he says.”

Michael was not easy to convince. He looked at her, stiff shouldered and reluctant, with the wary eyes of a gunshy deer. “I’m not good at going on dates.”

“You don’t have to be good at it. It’s supposed to be fun, it’s not a job interview.”

“Did I meet this girl before?”

“Maybe? I brought her into the office once. Red hair, really cute?”

“Oh, right. Jaguar girl.”

That was weird, even for him. “What?”

“Never mind,” he said quickly. “How bad do you want to go?”

“It’s not that I want to,” Megan said, “it’s that I feel like I should. It’s time I got back in the game.”

He deflated. “Then … yeah, I’ll go. But only this once. Next time you’re on your own.”

“You won’t regret it,” Megan said, suspecting that she ought to be crossing her fingers behind her back.

On the night of the date she wanted to be ready early. The hair appointment had taken a little longer than she had hoped but she still had time to do her makeup and get dressed without rushing. A dab of _Bal a Versailles_ and she was done.

Michael was early as well, which was good, given what Megan had in store for him.

“Hi,” she said brightly. “I got you something.”

“Why?” he asked with suspicion.

“No reason.” She held up a shopping bag. “Try it on?”

He looked capable of refusing outright, but she gave him her most pleading look. He crumbled and took the bag from her gingerly, as though it contained explosives.

“Fine,” he said darkly. “But I’m only wearing it if it doesn’t look stupid.”

“It’s going to look great,” she said, ushering him into the bathroom.

She had shopped quite carefully. Nothing too wild, just a nice blue sweater and some jeans.

“Megan?” he called from the bathroom. “I think these are too tight.”

“Let me see.”

He stood came out and stood there awkwardly, arms crossed. Even his posture was embarrassed.

“That’s how clothes are supposed to fit.” she said.

“Oh. So I should wear it.”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Uh huh. And you didn’t plan it like this, or anything.”

“Me?” Megan widened her eyes, all wounded naivete. “I would never do something like that.”

“I’m not getting my clothes back, am I?” he asked dryly.

They got their coats on - Megan made him leave his hat there - and headed down the stairs. Once outside she slipped her arm through his and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “You look great tonight,” she said, honestly, and was a little fascinated by the flush that crept up his neck at the compliment. “Julia is going to love you.”

 

The road to hell was paved with good intentions. Megan was reminded of this as she looked through Michael’s hair, checking his scalp for injury.

“There’s no blood.” She said, pressing her fingers lightly against the affected area. He winced. “But you’re going to have an egg there tomorrow.”

“All I did was try to sit in his lap,” Julia complained, leaning half out of the car, “I didn’t think he was going to react like a scared rabbit!”

“Are you done?” Megan’s date asked, openly irritated. He was tall, handsome and incredibly pretentious. All he talked about during dinner was the degradation of modern political thought and philosophical debate. She felt like she was on a date with one of her father’s teaching assistants. When he found out that Michael was a copywriter, and that Megan used to be, he had actually laughed. Now he was reacting with all the sullen resentment of a man who knew damn well he wasn’t getting any, but for some reason still thought he deserved some.

They had pulled over to ‘look at the stars’, as he put it. “What stars?” Michael had asked from the backseat. “We’re in New York.”

Walter had coaxed Megan out to sit on the hood of the car with him. She had gone along with it to give Julia and Michael some privacy - Julia was on the make and it was making Megan uncomfortable. She didn’t know why. She wasn’t shy herself. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before.

They had been outside all of five minutes when there was a tremendous thump from inside the car, and a brief shriek. Megan turned around to see Michael stumbling out, a hand on his head and cursing.

“What happened?” she had asked, rushing over.

“I tried to stand up,” he had groaned.

Megan finished her inspection. “Yes, I’m done. I think we all are.”

There were no objections. They drove home in complete silence. Megan tried to to catch Michael’s eye in the rearview mirror, but he was watching the street fly past, rubbing at the sore spot with a couple of fingers. For the first time since they met she couldn’t read his face.

 

She was being ridiculous. Megan knew that. She was a grown woman, and grown women did not stay up all night because they were stupid enough to read _The Haunting of Hill House_ after the sun went down. They did not swaddle themselves in blankets for comfort and keep their feet away from the edge of the bed lest something grab their ankles.

They didn’t consider talking their friends into coming over to chase away the spooks, either, but Megan was eyeing her telephone like it was a lifeline.

A crash from the bar below decided the matter for her. She screamed, shot upwards, got tangled in her quilt and tumbled sideways out of bed. Lying on the floor with her heart pounding in her throat brought a few things into perspective, one of them being that picking up the phone was less humiliating than behaving like this all night.

“Hi,” she said casually, “what are you doing?”

“Working,” Michael said. She could hear typewriter keys clicking, and what sounded like a western on the television.

“Now? It’s Saturday night.”

“The industry never sleeps. Why are you calling at this hour? I thought you’d be out someplace.”

“I had a quiet evening in. I’m a bit bored, that’s all.”

“Reading that scary book again?”

Megan scowled at the phone. “ _No_.”

“Uh huh.”

She toyed with the phone cord. “How important is what you’re working on? You deserve a break.”

“I’m not coming over.”

“Who said I was inviting you?”

“You were. Not doing it.”

“Please?” she said, giving up the charade. “Are you really going to leave me all alone and terrified?”

“Quit using your feminine wiles on me. I can hear you batting your eyelashes.”

“I’ll pay for a cab!”

“You - no, it’s for me. No, I’m not making that up, why would I make that up?”

“Tell your father I’m sorry we woke him up.” Megan grinned when she heard Morris say hello Megan in the background. “Put him on the phone. I want to say hi.”

“I’m coming right over - no, she has to go. See?” There was a click as Michael hung up. If Megan was deciphering that correctly it meant she had won.

He showed up at her door promptly, a total mess. There were splatters of mud all up one side and he was thoroughly soaked.

“How -”

“Car got me,” he said. “I was five minutes away.”

“Go get cleaned up.” She pulled him inside and took his coat, which she wiped off at the kitchen sink and draped over a chair to dry.

“You can take a shower if you want,” she yelled at the bathroom door.

There was water running, and splashing, but he didn’t turn the shower on. He opened the door a crack and looked out. “ I’m okay. It’s just on my clothes for the most part.” He hesitated. “Do you have anything I could wear?”

Megan glanced over from the bed, where she was reading a magazine. “Why? Are you naked?” She could see that he was wearing an undershirt, in spite of the way he ducked bashfully behind the door when she looked him.

“I’m not an _animal_.”

“Then don’t worry about it. This may shock you, but I’ve seen a boy in his underwear before.”

He frowned. “Fine. But don’t laugh.”

She whistled instead, as soon as he shuffled out in his boxers. He was adorable and entirely unable to look her in the face.

“Megan!”

“What? You have a nice figure,” she said innocently.

“You have something wrong with your eyes,” he muttered, sitting gingerly on the edge of her bed.

She tossed the comforter over him. “There. Preserve your modesty, if you’re so worried about it.”

That prompted him to climb in at last. Megan cuddled into him, unabashed. The radiator kept cutting out and the apartment was freezing. He smelled faintly of Old Spice and also like -

“Did you use my shampoo?”

“My hair had mud in it. Oh, and I owe you a towel. Remind me if I forget.”

Megan yawned. “I’ll take your clothes to the laundromat in the morning. Or borrow something from my neighbour, if it isn’t open.” Terry lived in the suite across the hall from Megan and was very sociable. He was also sixty years old, but that about matched Michael’s dress sense in any case.

She dozed off while they watched Lucy. When she woke she was sprawled across Michael, who was sleeping soundly on his back. She thought about the way Don used to drift away from her in the night, about how she would wake up to find him gone, his side of the bed cold and empty. She thought about all the actresses she knew who would kill for the eyelashes that were fanned out against Michael’s cheeks. She thought about a lot of things, as she lay there and listened to his even breathing.

The television had the test card up, programming done for the day. She got out of bed to turn it off. Michael stirred behind her and sat up, rubbing at his eyes. His hair was still damp.

“Light sleeper?” she asked, sliding back under the covers.

“Everything wakes me up,” he said, voice heavy with slumber. He gave her a drowsy, sweet smile. It was the most relaxed she had ever seen him.

She leaned over and kissed him. She intended to kiss him on the cheek, but he moved at the last second and she got his mouth, slightly off center.

His reaction was incredible - a full body shiver, something between exhilaration and panic. She could almost feel his pulse jump.

He moved back and licked his lips. “Megan - “

She kissed him again, for real this time. He made a desperate, broken sound and pressed forward, hands hesitant on her sides. She swallowed that sound, hungry, and kissed him with an open mouth. They kept going, frantic and careless - he left a hickey on her throat, she bit at his jaw - until she rolled him on top of her, between her legs.

“God,” he said, grinding down, perfect. She was throbbing, soaking through her panties.

“Let me - ” She tugged at his shirt, pulled it off and ran her nails down his back. He helped get her out of her nightgown and went silent at the sight of her. When he touched her again it was reverent, like she was both breakable and rare.

She cupped him through his boxers when he nuzzled at her breasts. “Fuck,” he said, going tense all over. She teased him with the back of her knuckles, then rubbed him hard with the heel of her palm until he shook.

“Megan, I’m not gonna last like that -”

“Good,” she said, and dragged his underwear down over his hips. He buried his face in her neck when she touched him, skin on skin, for the first time. He looked so needy, red and swollen, and she pumped his cock slowly, trying to draw it out.

Michael came quickly all the same, jolting against her and making a mess of them both. He went slack for an instant, but the post orgasm slump didn’t last long.

“Can I?” he asked, moving down her body and hooking his fingers into her panties.

“ _Crisse_ , yes.”

He pressed a light kiss against the bruise on her hip from falling out of bed, and rubbed his cheek against her thigh. She twitched when she felt his breath, and gasped when he spread her open with his thumbs, just looking.

“You’re so wet,” he said, wonderingly.

“Oh my god, don’t just sit there, please -”

He licked into her, sloppy and inexpert but so fucking eager. She grabbed at his hair, his shoulders, anything within reach. He ate her out until she was begging and swearing, calling him names in English and French. He kept pulling away, stroking her too softly with his fingers, waiting for her to ask before he used his mouth on her again. She rutted against his face shamelessly and when he sucked on her clit she came, finally came, toes curling and tears in her eyes.

After the spots interfering with her vision had cleared up she propped herself up on her elbows in order to gawk at him. She was going to say _where the hell did you learn to do that_ but the sight of him wiping his slick mouth with the back of a hand stopped her short.

“Again?” he asked, hopefully.

“...Yes. Yes, of course.” Megan settled back down, wrapping her legs around him and lifting her hips off the bed with a happy shudder.

 

They were found out on a rainy Sunday in late March. It was a drizzle more than a downpour, the kind of clingy, foggy shower that put cold deep into the bones. They tucked themselves into a doorway and waited for the rain to let up.

Michael had a newspaper open and Megan was reading it over his shoulder, idly playing with the collar of his shirt. Neither of them noticed their unexpected visitor until she said Megan’s name.

It was Peggy Olson. She was under an umbrella and wearing an expression that suggested she had stumbled upon a murder scene.

“Hi. When did you get back in town?” Peggy asked, stiffly. Her eyes were enormous.

“December,” Megan said faintly.

Michael stepped forward. “Peggy, hold on a minute - “

“Oh, goddamn it. To hell with this,” Peggy said, possibly to herself. “Goodbye.” She darted off, clearly done with the whole situation.

Megan chased after her. “Wait! Peggy, please.” She grabbed her by the arm, entreating. “Please listen to me.”

“How?” Peggy asked. “ _Why_?”

“We ran into each other - it just happened. I don’t know how to explain any better than that.” Megan was panicked, this could be so bad, Michael could get fired for this. “Please don’t tell Don. You know him, you know what he’s like. I don’t want Michael getting into trouble because of me.”

“I’m not going to snitch on you, Megan. I have no reason to do Don any favours, or to ruin Ginsberg’s life. So stop looking at me like that.”

“You’ll keep it a secret?”

“Yes,” Peggy said, exasperated. “Now let me go. I want to go away and never think about any of this again.”

“She’s gonna tell Stan as soon as she sees him,” Michael said after she left. “No way she keeps it to herself. But I don’t think he’ll spread it around.”

“You’re awfully calm about this.” Megan wasn’t. She was still breathing heavily.

“I can get another job if I have to,” he said, simply. There was something stubborn in his face. He held his hand out like it was a challenge. “What?” he asked when she didn’t take it. “A guy can’t walk down the street holding his girlfriend’s hand?”

Megan had become accustomed to thinking of her life in New York as treading water, a last resort attempt at repair while she waited for her real future to begin. New York was the place where she failed. She had been so attached to the idea that she never even noticed when it stopped being true. Somehow this place had become a real home. The future was standing right in front of her, waiting for her to say yes.

So she reached out, curled her fingers around his, and walked towards something better.

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of things:
> 
> 1\. I have no idea if a you could go to a movie on Christmas day in 1969. Google gave me nothing. For the purposes of this story, it was possible.
> 
> 2\. I couldn't find a name/gender for Megan's agent, so I made one up. Apologies if I contradicted canon.
> 
> 3\. "Crisse" means Christ, basically. I strongly recommend reading up on Quebecois curse words, they're great.


End file.
